At 10:30 my sister and I were pulled out of school.
My mother stopped at Shop Rite to get water, in case
of another attack. In the backseat, I hesitated to take
my book out of my backpack. I thought I should
be thinking about the people who were dead and dying
that very minute. I opened a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt anyway
and my sister said Laura you shouldn’t be reading right now.
I was already prepared to be ashamed. Years later
I recognize my chronically guilted boredom and Allegra was careful
about appearances, even then. There was no water left in Shop-Rite.
We didn’t leave the house for the rest of the bright blue day.
After midnight my father came home from lower Manhattan,
where he’d been reporting for Telemundo. On the back porch
he took off his clothes, caked in carcinogenic white ash.
The three of us were already in his bed, excluding him,
which was not unusual. We are inescapably ourselves.